Combing my hair last year, I found spiders,
A dalmatian, and eighty three rollers.
The die had been cast, the domino fell!
The dryer malfunctioned, dry went the well.
The Fiddler at the Inn was evicted,
He became a Hermit, bought a Brick Bed,
And used hairspray as his deodorant.
His luck began to improve when he found
A Ladybug. She moved in, paid him rent.
My luck changed too, because of a horseshoe.
I found it on the Internet—they sent
It to my Home, where I live with a crew
Of spiders, a dalmatian, but no phone.
The Heat is Gas, and love is all around.
Pynchon’s Service was started by Egan
And some vindictive icemongers from Rome.
Inherent Vice had a table— Dhalgren
Sat there (for him, Lot Forty-nine was Home).
Gravity’s Rainbow was invisible,
Arching over Lot Fifty-four, crying
“What has become of my friend Samuel?”
Mason and Dison sent regards, bleeding.
Salmon Rushdie went to that school with Greg,
Where Donald Barthelme had the helm, busy
As Humpty Dumpty, fragile as an egg.
Wintersun, Wodehouse, and R Delany…
In Pynchon’s Service, nineteen seventy—
Like Algonquin, with more obscenity.
These days (as in the days following the 2016 presidential election of the Narcissist in Chief), I find myself thinking about Winston, from Orwell’s novel 1984. In the end “he had won the victory over himself he loved big brother”. I wonder, as Winston must have, Is it best to give in and be as one of the mass of desperate men and women of have surrendered to quiet desperation?
But I am not there yet. Maybe the rats will do it.
To be continued….
The best boy at my wedding, Stefan Rose,
Went boom in the Dust Bowl, nineteen thirty–
But Dolly took my dagger, cut my nose,
Put duct tape on it (but it got dirty)…
The electrical grid went off at noon;
The Gaffer took Stefan down to the room
Where ideas are hatched, like “Go to moon”
(Six kroner I spent on my friend, the groom).
So, packing up the wagon with candles,
I rise from the gloom, and with a great surge
I roller blade into Hell. The handles
On my skateboard freeze, and I feel the urge
To spike my mug of coffee (turned tables!)
With the best limejuice from the bride’s stables.
What’s your all-time favorite album?
Well, makes me think of the alternative: What is my favourite short-time album? Is this the same as “Desert Island Disc”? How about Dessert Island Dish? I think if I have to pick one album, I have to go with Brandenburg Concertos, even though it’s a double album. Bach is best for all time listening. Favourite short-time album may be Abbey Road, or Dark Side of the Moon. Perennial favourites, everywhere! But don’t let me forget Aereo-Plain! How can a person choose just one?
Tell my ma to take the first instruction,
By Frank from Cork: You’ll be educated
As teaching scholars’ quotes reach reduction
Through Opera Chamber Music created.
Arthur Nussbaum provides the illusion
That issues as diverse as goldfinches
Confront the Natural Heir of Tucson.
Understandably, Joyce’s atmosphere clinches
What over the years has become standard:
When you read the thoughts of Bolly the Moon,
Please read it alous, like an old Grand Bard;
Say to Gus, thank you, and with Molly Bloom
Share your insights and your love– your passion–
For Joyce notebooks last longer than fasion.
Pride of Pillowcase
Following the advice of the early
Somnambulists, I scooted to the store
To buy groceries and venom,, while Hurley
And Governor Lynch regarded the door.
Samples of aerodisiacs swam through
The Air, like Temple Ionics in Spring,
Or the Boss Porous Estate, made anew,
During the Pride of Rebellion, in Ming.
Adroitly, I pillowcased the Pony
I had borrowed that morning from Oskar;
He owed me for the time he was stony
(And I drove him to Winslet in Bob’s car).
When Bread Helliger became Manager,
Tosca laymen withheld the dowager.
Meeting Hiram Binginham
Hiram Bingingham plausibly denied
Meeting Jerry Seinfeld on a subway.
Mortified Norman Mailer once replied
To a text from Twyla Tharp: the rub way .
In Vegas, Frank Sinatra is singing
To the wax Barack Obama statue.
And it’s A. J. Liebling who is bringing
His good friend Danny Pilsener, his “plus two”.
Meanwhile, Kevin Naughton exercises
With friend Arlene Croce, stirring passion
In Billy Joel, who this time surprises
Mikhail Baryshnikov with High Fashion.
Old Bartleby is a scribbler, like me.
Rusty Miller is a dancer, so free.
Rendro allyoop. We regard this day. Allen fried potatoes. Ane Brun sang Schubertiad. With harmony from Kate and Anna McGarrigle.
A poem for today:
Sideways Versions
Sideways versions of soap opera pardons:
Dedalus and Calypso, languishing
In Ithaca, are brought to environs
Of broguish silence, even as they sing.
In this way they practice a better way
Of being, in magnitude with the stars…
A decent man, named Bloom, is set to play
A significant role, driving the car.
Practical portals, for internal feuds,
Bring Dedalus and Calypso to Bloom–
Joining as passengers in his car, dude.
And goddess, with the artist Leo Bloom!
Architect of archetypes, Mister Joyce staged
A novel of a day, filled many page.
“Thanks to the human heart by which we live,
Thanks to its tenderness, its joys, and fears,
To me the meanest flower that blows can give
Thoughts that do often lie too deep for tears.”
-from Intimations…. by William W.
Mean (not meanest) flower Thoughts of Wordsworth’s words came to mean, upon seeing this “mean” flower, growing near the cracked sidewalk of a city.
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